


Red Mud

by Darthikari



Series: Red Mud: A Star Wars Story [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Solo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-25 05:38:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19739392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darthikari/pseuds/Darthikari
Summary: Set shortly after the events of Solo: A Star Wars Story, this is the interwoven tale of a small group of soldiers on the war-torn planet of Mimban, and the terrible forces that shape their destinies...





	1. Chapter One

Prologue:

  
Imperial taskforce: Chad IV system.

  
Lieutenant Firmus Piett stepped back from the viewport. For a moment, he considered his reflection as it stared back at him from the ten-meter square pane of transparasteel. He was by no means a vain man; he simply felt that a well-groomed officer inspired more confidence in his men. Dressed in his pure black uniform, if not for the command cylinders in the breast pockets of his tunic, and the glistening rank badge over his heart, his reflection would have resembled a disembodied head floating above the similarly black deckplates. The satisfying thrum of the victory-class star destroyer Oni’s engines reverberated through the soles of his boots, assuring him that the full might of the Imperial Navy would be his backup on this, his first solo command mission. Behind him, the door hissed aside, permitting entry for the ship’s captain to this observation lounge. The man was over twice the junior officer’s age, but save for a few wrinkles, a smattering of silver hair about the temples, the two men could have been mistaken for brothers. With lightning-fast reflexes, the lieutenant spun on his heels and snapped to attention. “At ease Firmus” Captain Ransper sighed as he made his way to one of the lounge’s acceleration couches, “I’ve come once again to attempt to dissuade you from accompanying this ground assault. You’re a navy officer son, leave this to the ground-thumpers.”

  
“Sir,” the Lieutenant replied, joining his superior on the three-meter long black padded bench “with all due respect, you of all people should realize how much effort, how many men under my command died trying to bring this pirate to justice. I’m not going to miss that shuttle, even if it means going as a civilian observer.”

  
“There’s no need for that,” Ransper countered, turning his attention to the steadily-growing blue orb that was their vessel’s destination. “You of all people should realize just how many strings I had to pull to get permission for this. I practically had to speak to Chancellor, I mean Emperor Palpatine to get clearance. I understand your desire to finish this. Hell, Tal-Shak is one of the most soulless monsters I’ve ever faced. Its just that ....I ...cant put it into words. I just have this feeling that something is going to go terribly awry with this mission”

  
..............................................................................

It was hard to tell when it happened....

  
The ride to the surface of this giant raindrop of a planet ad been relatively uneventful, and the mission’s target, a small rig platform in the southern hemisphere had provided minimal resistance. After a few well-placed turbolaser bolts had eliminated the pirate’s air defense turrets, Piett’s lambda-class shuttle touched down on the largest of the outpost’s landing pads. Moments later, they were inside, five minutes ahead of schedule.

Everything was going according to plan....

  
As expected, this had been a particularly bloody assault. The floors were littered with the bodies of dozens of aliens, as it was Tal-Shak’s policy to only permit non-humans into his organization. There had been no Imperial casualties thus far, and Lieutenant Piett alowed himself a momentary satisfied upturn in the corner of his erstwhile proper military frown. Stormtroopers were sending in a constant stream of reports as they ferreted their way through every compartment of the sprawling facility.  
No detail had been left to chance....  
At long last, Firmus’ comlink beeped, and the static truncated report from the trooper commander declared that the pirate king was indeed in custody. Using all the control he could muster to not break into a sprint, Piett briskly made his way to the turbolift, a few moments later disembarking to find himself face-to-face with his squid-headed target, the Quarren Grand Exalted Pirate King.

  
Except for......

  
“Jel Parif Tal-Shak.” Piett began, attempting to sound as commanding as possible, “You are hereby charged with the crimes of murder, piracy, terrorism and sedition against the Government of the Galactic Empire and its citizens. You shall be brought before a military tribunal to receive sentencing, which shall be carried out....

  
HIM......

  
The boy was barely recognizable as a human being. He was horrifically malnorished, clothed in blood and grease stained rags, with hair that hung in oily clumps about his head. If Firmus had met this boy begging on a street somewhere, not only would he have avoided him at all costs, but he probably would have had the thoroughfare flame-sterilized. Appearances notwithstanding, the young Lieutenant knew that this wretch was now the one in control of the situation, for clutched in his skeletal right hand rested an armed thermal detonator.

  
“You’re not taking him!” the boy commanded, sliding up behind the pirate “You cant! You can’t!! Its not fair! I wont let you!” The boy nudged Tal-Shak and they began to inch away from the Imperials, moving towards the lift Piett had just used. The Quarren grunted something that Piett’s earpiece translated as “I knew I could count on you, boy!” Firmus was no expert in reading alien facial expressions, but the glint of joy in the Quarren’s eye’s was unmistakable. “Of course sir,” the boy replied, continuing softly “I wont let them take you....you belong to ME.” The pirate barely had a heartbeat before the vibroblade protruded from his chest. The tentacles that surrounded his mouth flew open wide, as if to be accompanied by a scream that would never come.

The boy’s motion was a blur, it was as if all the rage in the universe was being channeled through his slight frame. Again and again the blade struck home. Piett’s stormtrooper escorts had taken notice of the fact that the detonator was no longer in the boy’s possession, as it rolled into the far corner of the room. They readied their weapons and took aim at the boy as he continued to gore the still-twitching corpse on the floor. Piett motioned to his troops to stand down, deciding that whatever torments this child had endured, he was due his opportunity for vengeance.

  
After what seemed like both an instant, and an eternity, the boy stopped his assault. He pulled himself up to his full height, dropped his weapon, and closed his eyes. “Mother, Father, Uinnee,” he whispered, as sobs began to wrack his body “its over, its over, I can join you now....”

  
Piett slowly approached the child, waving off the objection of the trooper to his right, “You’re right son,” he soothed, closing the distance between them, “its over, for him, for their suffering, but not for you.” By now Piett was within reaching distance, and he cautiously placed his hand on the boy’s slight, heaving shoulder. “The Empire is here, we will always be here for you, all we ask is that you grant us the gift of your strength.....”

  
.....................................................................

  
The clone wars had brought conflict and turmoil to nearly every corner of the galaxy. The battle between the Republic, and Count Dooku’s Confederacy of Independent Systems generated a thirst for material that was nearly unparalleled in galactic history, and that need brought war to planets who’s siren’s song of natural resources were too strong to resist. Such was the case with the planet of Mimban, its dense, humid rainforests, swamps, and mudfields blanketed a crust rich in hyperbaride ore. The republic was quick to identify its importance, and nearly as expedient in securing a base for the 224th clonetrooper battalion to protect those interests from the Separatist droid army. Over the years of the conflict, burdened with the ever-increasing need for more of the precious mineral, coupled with the defilement of their homeworld, the Mimbanise people began to reassess their loyalty to the Republic, and as things all too often happen through the fog of war, the protector becomes the oppressor, and the victim finds themselves under the yoke of an even crueler master. For the galaxy at large however, the indignities the people of Mimban were suffering went unnoticed, all they knew is that there was an uprising against their newly-formed Empire, and for its war-weary citizens to finally have peace, that insurgency needed to be brought to a swift, decisive conclusion.....

  
......................................................................

  
Mimban conflict: Day: 10,725

  
Private Gunther wouldn't stop laughing, his blood-splattered face twisted into a ghoulish mask. Gunther wasn't injured, the viscera that the endless rain was slowly washing clean had come from his pit-mate, PFC Isaran, whose now-headless corpse lay slumped against the wall of the mud hole they had taken shelter in. Three has entered this crater, now only two were still breathing. The other survivor, Private Lon Weskin, let loose another barrage of blaster bolts from his E-10 into the encroaching yellow mist over the rim of the foxhole, then turned back to his giggling comrade.

  
"Will you shut up!?" Weskin hissed "Pull yourself together!" Lon swore to himself, he hadn't signed up for this, he just wanted off the farm, to see the stars, to make a name for himself in the galaxy. The way things were going, the only name he was going to make was the one slapped on the box of ashes his folks would get from a courier droid...if he was even that lucky.

  
A mudtrooper from a neighboring trench decided to make a break for the next blast crater, Lon heard his war cry as he charged over the lip, and an instant later his helmet was reverberating with from a near-deafening explosion, as the soldier hit a tripwire, and was subsequently vaporized into a fine red mist.  
Once his ears stopped ringing Lon realized that Gunther had finally stopped laughing, but had switched to shrieking instead. "To hell with this" he told himself as he flipped the "stun" selector switch and sent a stream of concentric rings of blue energy into the shell-shocked trooper, instantly silencing him. By protocol, Lon should have gone to check the soldier for a pulse, as occasionally stun bolts did cause cardiac arrest, but at this point, he just didn't care anymore......

  
..........................

  
"Next!"

  
Lon stepped through the medical tent flap and took a seat on the stool opposite "old Doc” Milburn Jess, the company’s chief medic. This time, he had been pretty lucky, aside from a few scrapes and bruises, his injuries from the previous night's skirmish had been limited to an incessant ringing in his ears from being too close to one too many explosions. Times like this he wished the standard trooper bucket wasn’t such a perfect echo chamber. The grizzled chief medic looked up from his datapad, his expression a mixture of annoyance and weariness, and roughly took hold of the young soldier's head with his rough calloused hands. The doctor was both admired and feared by the troops, a Clone War veteran, he had incredible, almost miraculous healing skills, but he did not suffer fools lightly, and his bedside manner left much to be desired.  
"Let me guess," Milburn snapped " you weren't wearing your respirator either?" The doc jammed a auditory canal probe in Lon's left ear as he continued grumbling " You know the mask completes the seal on the helmet, don't you? You wouldn't be losing your hearing if you’d keep the damn thing on like the karking thing's designed to be worn!" he continued checking the right ear, then pulled out the lung scrubber, and slapped the mask over Lon's nose and mouth "You have any idea what the mold spores of this latrine of a planet will do to your lungs? Damn fools, every one of you. Keep the respirator on!" The scrubber went to work, giving the sensation that it was attempting to inflate Lon’s lungs like a pair of balloons, as uncomfortable as this part of the procedure was, Lon knew from previous experience the worst was yet to come, a second later the machine entered the next part of the cycle, as it rapidly reversed the airflow, pulling the contaminated air and mucus from the soldier's respiratory system. "Y' don't like that huh?" the cantankerous old medic continued berating his patient, "Well maybe you'll remember to suit up properly next time." 

  
Lon staggered his way back to his "quarters"- a flimsiplast pop-up tent toward the rear half of Vigilance base. Vigilance was situated in the northern plains of the Darcen lowlands. The base covered the span of four square kilometers, although most the territory was comprised of the serpentine trenches that scarred the mud flats. It had been there for more than five years, yet in all that time, it had only expanded a few hundred meters. This was a war of attrition, gains and losses of territory were a daily occurrence, but there was so little to show for all the blood that had been spilled....

  
In the distance, the fruits of the division's labors were being made evident. the trenching droids were hard at work, tearing through the ash-colored clay, a geyser of liquefied earth spraying from their top vents as they carved out the proof that the Empire now controlled another fifty meters of Mimban's terrain. Lon smacked the side of his head a couple times, trying to shake loose the ringing in his ears, to no avail, and stopped to peel off most of his uniform before entering the flimsy grey structure. He was convinced that the luxury of an enclosure to sleep in would normally not be high on the Empire's priorities, but the mold and fungus spore counts on this particular stretch of the battlefield were so high that nearly half of the troopers in his squad either died, or were taken out of the fight permanently due to lung-rot. Once, Lon had been to tired to take his boots off before going to sleep, and had awakened to a veritable carpet of mold covering the floor.

  
Stripped down to his bodyglove, Lon crawled through the flap, sprayed himself down with antifungal, and flopped onto his bedroll. Despite his weariness, the battle last night still wore heavily on his mind. He has no idea how many men had died, but he'd personally seen the end of at least a dozen trooper's lives. When Lon had first arrived here, he had attempted to try to form a bond with his squad mates, but lately it had become increasingly difficult, the casualty rate had seen a dramatic uptick in the last few weeks. He could feel his enthusiasm beginning to ebb as the weight of the situation weighed heavier on his mind. He had seen enough wartime holos detailing the heroics of the troopers of the Clone Wars as he was growing up, and Lon fully expected to have a similar feeling of "brothers-in-arms against a common foe". He almost could hear the stirring music swell as he had stepped off the troop transport that first day.... He still believed in the cause. The Empire needed to establish order, there was simply too much chaos in the galaxy, but even the most dedicated of soldiers needed to feel that there was a tangible benefit to their efforts, and seeing the reinforcements they’d been receiving mowed down so quickly was disheartening. New troops, almost children in their innocence, would arrive, they'd get ordered into the meat-grinder, and they'd need to be replaced in a couple weeks. there was no point to trying to form any real bonds, most of the soldiers he was fighting side by side with would be gone before he had a chance to remember their names.

  
Lon pulled his personal datapad out from its case, turned on the sketching program, and doodled a bit with the tip of his fingers on the glass surface. Back home, on Ertegas, he had dreamed of being an artist. Lon had spent hours drawing the idyllic landscapes of his home world, but he had tired of serene landscapes and fauna. He craved action, he wanted glory, he wanted...something else. Now, as he flipped throughout the most recent art he had completed, the color palette had changed, gone were the pastels, now his creations were awash in blacks, greys and red...always red, and most contained the dark silhouette of some spectral embodiment of death. A looming black figure towered over the subjects of his drawings, waiting to carve the hapless down like grain before a thresher. The young trooper's eyelids grew heavy, and he thumbed the power switch off on the datapad as sleep finally rescued him from his thoughts.....

  
Lon awoke mid-air. His shelter nearly vaporized from around him, as the shockwave from the detonation of the power generator had swept the most of the free-standing structures from the camp. He landed face down in the muck, as the ground around him was pelted with raining debris. Lon could barely hear the cries of his fellow troopers as he gathered his wits and began scrambling through the mud to find whatever weapons or bits of armor he could cobble together.

  
Crawling on his hands and knees, Lon managed to find a chestplate, helmet, and a rack of E-10 rifles as he scurried toward the relative safety of the nearest trench. Unfortunately the electro-lock that prevented theft of the weapons wouldn't release, so in desperation, he shoved the whole rack into the trench, rolling over the lip after it. They both nearly landed on top of Private Rent Amsey, one of the squad's newest additions. The two-meter fall succeeded in shattering the rifle lock-bar, a testament to its poor construction, and the two startled troopers gathered up a pair for each of them as they tried to cobble together some level of protection from the bits of armor they had scrounged.  
"What happened?" Lon yelled over the din as he slipped the helmet's strap under his chin. "No idea," Rent replied as he checked his rifle's power cell "I was out on guard duty when the generator blew. Not even sure if its an attack or not. I'm trying to find the lieutenant." Satisfied that his weapon was useable he motioned with the tip of the barrel down the trench ahead "You wanna come with? Maybe we can find out what's going on!"

  
Weskin nodded in agreement, scooped up his rifles and the two mudtroopers made their way through the darkness towards the forward trenches. The sounds of sympathetic explosions, alert klaxons and roaring fires were beginning to give way to the percussive ones of a fierce firefight as they inched their way through the clay man made canyons. Along the way they found themselves joining a handful of other, equally bewildered soldiers.  
Upon reaching the newest trenches, dozens of troopers were doing their best to lay down suppression fire, but it was painfully obvious that they lacked any form of coordination or direction. Most had simply propped their blasters on the top of the trench wall, locked them on full auto, and were hosing the darkness blindly with red blaster bolts.

Sticking together, Lon and Rent checked armbands for anyone else who might have held rank, to no result. It was the very picture of chaos, for a few moments they weren't sure that was even an enemy to shoot at, until a crude dagger lodged itself square in the center of Amsey's chest. The private's eyes flew open wide from the shock of the impact, and his mouth opened as if to say something, but he was dead already, and collapsed to the ground at Lon’s feet. His eyes caught sight of movement in the encroaching darkness, and immediately loosed a salvo in that direction. To his satisfaction, his action was met with an agonized howl as a red-skinned alien, clad in native marsh grass woven armor fell from the lip of the trench. Lon's self-adulation was instantly cut short as dozens of near-identical shapes rose from the mud and began pouring into the Imperial fortifications.

  
For a few moments, the narrow chasm in the Mimban soil was home to a pitched close-quarters battle. Mudtroopers and natives shooting, stabbing and bludgeoning each other in a bewildering mass of flailing limbs and muzzle flashes. Through the fray, Lon noticed one of the enemy breaking through the melee and begin to charge at him. He raised his rifle to fire, only to find it pressed against his opponent's chest, as the warrior had closed the distance between them. He pulled the trigger anyway, instantly burning a hole through the Mimbanese's torso, sending it sprawling against the wall. The fear was starting to ebb away as he successfully neutralized another pair of warriors, and he was gaining confidence that he just might survive this night, until through the din, he heard the unmistakable sound of pottery shattering. "Rot bomb!" The cry of some poor soldier further up the trench sent a wave of near-paralyzing fear through the ranks...

  
In an effort to try to keep pace with the escalating aggression of the Imperial forces on their home world, the Mimbanese had developed these helmet-sized biological weapons. Formed from fired ceramic, the bomb was filled with an enzymic gas that was heavier than air, and once it made contact with skin or lung tissue, began a swift digestion of the flesh it touched. Only a high-pressure water spray would wash the clinging agent away, but most affected could never get away from the vapors fast enough. Coming in contact with the rapidly spreading invisible gas was more often than not an agonizing death sentence.  
Lon took a quick inventory of his gear, thankfully he had a complete helmet on, and he had been able to salvage a pair of mismatched boots on his way to the front line. Unfortunately, he hadn’t had time or luck to find gloves, as his had been blown away by the generator detonation. He had no choice but to run. Even if he had decided to stand his ground, he probably couldn’t have anyway, as the rest of the mudtroopers in the trench began their own mad scramble from the deadly cloud. Lon only paused long enough to yank the all-weather poncho from Amsey’s corpse, as he struggled to pull the tarp over his helmet as he ran.

  
The path to safety through the droid-carved canyons was fraught with obstacles. Cables, ammo crates, and combat debris littered the slimy clay floor of the trench. Lon could hear his own panicked breathing over the din the in-helmet speakers were blaring. The agonized cries of men in their death throes seemed to emanate from inside his head. Slipping and clawing his way, Lon rounded another corner to see the incredibly welcome sight of a squad of stormtroopers charging towards him. As they closed the distance between them, the young soldier could make out the slender frame of Lieutenant Varlent in the center of the approaching white-armored phalanx.

  
“Halt trooper!” the lieutenant briskly snapped, “You will return to the front immediately!”

“But sir,” Lon pleaded, “they set off a rot bomb, we need to evacuate the trench!”

  
“There is no place for cowards or deserters,” Varlent continued, completely dismissing Lon warning “either return to your post or face summary execution! Men, target this poltroon!” The mud-splattered stormtroopers halted their advance and readied their weapons against Lon. He could hear the scream from one of his compatriots a dozen meters back from whence he came. For an instant, he weighed his options, obeying orders was suicide, making a break for it was the same, and there was no way he was going to proselytize the Imperial officer into listening to reason. There was only one path to survival left to him, as slim as it was. He jumped back around the corner, dropped to his knees, and cinched the poncho he had scavenged around himself, trying to form a seal with the slimy clay walls and floor of the dugout.

  
An instant later, a salvo of blaster bolts chewed into the wall behind where Lon had just been standing, as it became apparent the Lieutenant had deemed Lon’s life forfeit. At the same moment, the faint sizzle of the bio-material being eaten off his concealing tarp began to reach his traumatized eardrums. Less than a heartbeat later a chorus of agonized cries began echoing from the where the officer’s squad had been. Lon stifled the desire to taunt the dying men with the folly of their unwillingness to listen, but he thought better of it. His top priority was staying hunkered down until the cloud had dissipated.

  
Fifteen minutes. The training holos, corroborated by actual survivors, universally stated that it would take fifteen minutes for the flesh-dissolving gas to lose it’s potency. When asked to complete a combat drill, or finish a meal in that amount of time, it seemed like less than a few heartbeats. Now, with only the sounds of dying troopers, and the chemicals reacting on his protecting poncho, fifteen minutes was an eternity. Lon kept his breathing slow and shallow, terrified that even the slightest motion would break the protective cocoon around him. As the minutes dragged on, the death rattles around him slowly faded to silence. Off in the distance, the scream of TIE fighters on strafing runs echoed like the call of some deranged predatory bird. Lon tried to stay focused on his situation, but his thoughts drifted back to home, to peaceful days in the meadow down the path from his parent’s home, to fresh bread, sunlight, music, to Nissa, the auburn-haired beauty who’d been his classmate all through his thirteen years of schooling, and how he never did say goodbye the night he left for the academy......

  
A sudden clap of thunder nearly made the young soldier jump from is hiding spot, immediately followed by an onslaught of torrential rain. Despite postulating that the precipitation had more than likely washed the gas from the air around him, Lon chose to stay secure until the full duration had passed. Then, slowly and deliberately he straightened up, and began the arduous task of walking back to base. Overhead, an open-sided Imperial gunship floated past on its undulating repulsorlifts, its searchlight beams illuminating the darkness past the front lines. Gunners began opening up with their rotary blasters, sending a steady stream of red bolts into the no-man’s-land between the two armies. Lon simply trudged on, the deluge slowly washing the signs of this night’s battle into the muddled grey landscape...

  
A few hours later Lon found himself huddled over a tray of rations in the mess tent. He wasn’t really hungry, but given the fact that he currently didn’t have quarters to return to, the relative warmth of the canteen was a welcome relief from the miserable conditions outside.

“This seat taken?” a decidedly female voice roused Lon from his musings about the previous night’s battle.

“No, go ahea....” Lon instantly regretted not looking up from his plate faster, for when he did, he found he had just invited Corporal Rangley to join him.  
Corporal Elis Rangley was the epitome of contradictions. From a distance, she carried the physique of a socialite, unusually tall at close to two full meters, her posture and graceful movements bellied someone who had spent a good deal of their time with people who owned real estate on Coruscant. On closer inspection it became apparent that her outwardly fashionable hairstyle, long raven locks swept over her left eye, was to partially camouflage the fact that the socket was empty, the violet orb that had once occupied it had been lost to shrapnel months ago. For someone who took care in her appearance, the injury seemed to hold no great traumatic psychological effect on her, in fact she often used her deformity to prank new recruits. Elis was foul-mouthed, hard drinking (she had a secret micro distillery in her quarters), and her temper was legendary. On the battlefield, there was no one a trooper would rather have at their side, but once the fighting stopped they’d avoid her like a contagion. Lon had actually witnessed her pummel a hapless soldier who’d pushed his luck a bit to far for her comfort, the poor fool had lost most of his teeth and got his jaw broken in two places as a reward for a salacious comment.

  
“That was a real shab-storm last night, wasn’t it?” Elis mused, swinging a leg over the mess hall chair opposite Lon and flopping down onto the seat.

  
It was against his better judgement, but Lon needed conversation right now, so he steeled himself and decided to reply. “One of the worst I’ve seen yet,” he sighed, giving her an affirming nod of his head “how’d your squad pull through?”

  
Elis’ expression was one of genuine surprise “What the? You can actually converse?” she propped her chin on the back of her right fist “ I usually get the silent treatment from you pittens!” The corporal had adopted a bemused smirk as she teased Lon for his reply, a smile that quickly faded as the memories of the skirmish took the forefront of her consciousness. “We lost six. I’ve got a feeling they’ll be combining squads. Our numbers are just too thin to be sectioned off the way we are.”

  
Lon nodded in agreement,” I’m all that’s left of mine,” he took a swig of the dirtwater-flavored excuse for caff from his cup, continuing “hell, I don’t even have a tent anymore. Almost got term’d myself if I didn’t know how to duck-n-cover when they set off that rot-bomb.”

Elis let out a low whistle “You were in the forward lines? You’re one lucky bastard! I heard the Lieutenant got his card punched there!”

  
Lon thought to himself if he should mention his encounter with the departed officer, but decided against it. He wasn’t entirely sure of the corporal’s loyalties, and in a small way, he did play a part in Varlent’s demise. “Hope that command has a plan in place,” he offered instead, “the men are going to start losing morale if we don’t get some positive gains out there”

  
“Start?!” Elis chortled “I don’t think morale can get any lower! I mean folks are starting to sleep in body bags in order to help cut down on the coroner’s workload!” She chuckled at her own joke a bit before continuing “Unless that lambda-class up on the pad brought us some kind of crinking genius, we’re all karked. Those fools up there,” she thumbed in the direction of the command center “I don’t think there’s a one of them smart enough to not drink out of the latrine!”

  
Lon heaved a sigh and nodded in agreement, setting his cup down, the mental imagery his companion had shared fully removing any desire to finish the swill he had been drinking. Things did not look good as they stood, and the prospect of a major change in direction seemed highly unlikely....

  
............................................................................................

Major Verant Zafir fiddled with the high collar of his olive-grey uniform as he stared across the briefing room table at his two “guests”. He had been expecting his superior, Moff Bin Essada, a bi-monthly visit that he never looked forward to, but the steely-eyed man sitting next to him was an even more unwelcome visitant. ‘As you can clearly see,” Verant continued, indicating the holographic dossier that floated in the center of the room “we are deficient in all categories. Personnel, rations, munitions, droids, transports, medical supplies, and, if I may be so bold to admit, morale. These “soldiers” you routinely deliver me are the very dregs of the Empire. They’re a motley hoard of convicts, conscripts, and wash-outs. The best I have are the few enlisted men, but even their mettle is nearly exhausted. I simply cannot see how I am expected to win this campaign when this is all the resources at my disposal”

  
“Are you quite finished?” the corpulent Moff chided, waving his hand dismissively at the hovering statistics. “it has become apparent to me that whilst you are quite adept at following orders, you fail to understand the nature and purpose of your mission here.” Bin leaned forward in his chair, interlacing his fingers and peering intently at the younger officer. “ what the empire requires from this miserable excuse of a world in no way requires the subjugation of its populace. Your mission is the continuation of hostilities, not their successful resolution. Your mission is to maintain the conflict until such time as a proper example can be made of these people...”

  
It took a moment for the words to sink in, for the implications of what his superior was asking to take hold, and for the understanding of why his other guest was here before the fires of rage began to spring forth from Verant’s soul. “You mean to tell me,” Verant exclaimed as he jumped from his seat “that I am meant to wallow here until he finishes his obscene toy!?”

  
“Watch your tongue,” Orson Krennic snapped in reply to the Major’s insult “lest you find yourself without recall orders when the time comes. The Project is the very cornerstone of the Emperor’s vision for the future of this galaxy. Its successful completion will usher in a new era, one where separatists, insurgents and malcontents won’t dare to raise their heads from the mire they spawn from.” Krennic alowed himself a self-satisfied smile, knowing he was in total command of this meeting now. “You should count yourself fortunate,” he continued, “your efforts here have created something the information ministry prizes quite highly, a non-human threat, pushed into increasingly barbaric acts of violence, with links to several sympathetic members of the senate. The recruitment holos depicting your struggles here have been a boon for recruitment as well....and when The Project is completed, the eradication of this wretched rock will send a clear message to all those foolish enough to oppose the New Order”

  
Verant took a moment to glance at Moff Essada, instantly realizing there was no point to raising any further objections. His only course of action was to plead for a few more crumbs off the Empire’s dining table, and to pray that his slight against the Director would be quickly forgotten. “What would you have me do then? If some form of assistance is not forthcoming, I fear our lines will soon collapse.”

  
“The importance of this campaign is duly noted, Major,” Moff Essada replied, his voice a mixture of reassurance and menace “and as for your troops, we will endeavor to find new ways to motivate them....”

  
.....................................................................................

  
Lon took another swig of the fire-water his companion offered, as he slumped against the foot locker opposite her bunk. Corporal Rangley and he had retired to the tent she called home and had been swapping war stories all night long. Despite his bone-deep weariness, he just didn’t want this evening to end. He’d actually found a friend in this hell-hole, like a sister he never knew he was missing from his life.

  
“So,” Elis queried, now that her most recent meat-grinder tale had concluded “back home, whrrrever yer from,” she leaned a bit closer, a wry smile on her flushed face “you got a bit-o-fluff waitin’ fer ya? Lemme guess, blonde, two kilos soakin’ wet, probably sells flowers er paints, er teaches er somthin’ like that? C’mon, I’m dyin’ t’ know....”

  
“Somethin’ like that,” Lon responded, as the memory of Nissa flickered through his alcohol -muddled conciousness, “Brown hair,” he continued as the truth of his situation set in “though, doubt she’s waitn’ fer me,” his tone grew a bit more melancholy “ in fact, don’t want her to. What th’ hell’d we talk about anyway? Y’ think I could tell ‘er about this?” he made a dramatic sweeping motion with his arms, indicating the battlefield around them. “Naw, that life is dead -n-buried... Speaking of which,” he turned his flask upside down, shaking it to confirm its lack of contents “s’that the last of our dear, dear friend?”

  
“Until t’morrow,” Elis sighed, giving the tiny processor under the cot a light, loving pat “hardest working soldier here. Bringer of the stuff o’ life, numb’r of brain cells, granter of sleep, how I love thee!” She heaped her praises upon the device with appropriately comical dramatic flourishes, her arms swinging in wide motions of adoration like actresses often reserved for stage performances. She gave her own flask a little shake, realizing that there were a few drops left, took a tiny swig, and offered the final drop to her companion.

  
Lon waved it off, gesturing for his host to finish. Emboldened by his inebriation, and considering Corporal Rangley’s apparently good mood, he decided to take his chances and ask the question that had been burning its way through his consciousness since the first time he had noticed her on the parade grounds a few months ago. “Elis,” he started, instantly wondering if he shouldn’t have used her first name, but her expression didn’t betray any irritation on her part “I’m sorry, ‘nd I know its none of my business, but I gotta ask, n’ you don’t hafta answer if you don’ want to, but I was just tryin’ to figure out...”

  
“Oh sithspit!” Elis cried out in exasperation “Just ask it already! You wanna ask ‘bout this right?” She pulled back the long jet-black silky strands of hair from the left side of her face. This close to her, Lon could plainly see the horrific nature of the damage done. Not only was the eye gone, but the lids as well. Her otherwise porcelain skin was a gnarled, lumpy pinkish-grey mass that went from her hairline to the bottom of her jaw. “You wanna know why?” her tone had softened considerably as she let the camouflaging locks fall back into place “S’ cause I can’t wear this all the time.” She gave the breastplate of her armor a reassuring pat.

  
It took an instant for the meaning of he words to sink in, but when they did, Lon’s inebriation nearly cleared away completely. He hadn’t even noticed that Elis had only removed her boots, despite the fact that he had performed his customary outer layer strip-down before entering her cramped quarters. Suddenly he was furious. The thought that in order to feel safe... that she had chosen to remain painfully disfigured... because of troops on their own side.... “Hey,” he began, trying his best to convey his sympathy with his voice and facial expression “I’m so...”

  
“Shut up.” Elis replied flatly, there was no malice in her tone, “You don’t apologize. You aren’t one of them, and even if you were, the words mean nothing.” She paused a moment, then unfastened the shoulder clip on her chestplate’s left shoulder and began prying the plastoid olive-green torso armor off. Lon could actually feel the temperature rise in the tent as the corporal’s body heat escaped. “What are you still doing here?” Elis chided, tossing one of her armor’s shoulder bells at Lon’s head “Get out, y’ creep!” Weskin began hurriedly gathering his things to make a quick exit, lightly confused by Rangley’s mood swing “Hey,” Elis offered as he made his way to the tent flap, “Thanks. See you t’morrow...”


	2. Red Mud Chapter 2

Lieutenant Lon Weskin was in hell. The fighting was over for now, and the storms had passed, but he was in sheer agony. He stood, as he had for the last four hours, on the parade grounds silently cursing his decision to break with sobriety last night. He should have known that after the chaos of the preceding day, that a full inspection would have been in order, but today was Empire Day, and command was making a special effort to look good, and his lack of good judgement had come to haunt him. Lon’s boots were now filled with water up to his ankles, his stomach was in knots, his mouth tasted like a small furry creature had chosen it for a final resting place, his head ached, and to make the whole thing even more unbearable, the incessant ringing in his ears seemed to have picked up a few decibels. He was just about to the point where he didn’t care if he went on report or to the brig for breaking formation when the call for “at ease” was finally issued.

Lon trudged his way to the duty board to see what his next assignment would be. Judging from the collective groaning and grumbling he heard as he approached the massive hologram, he was not in for a pleasant experience. Finding his name, Lon realized his expectations had been met. Trench clean-up duty. Normally that duty would have fallen to the droid pool, but seeing that for conveniences sake, it had been built directly attached to the main power generator, and seeing how said generator had been vaporized in the cause-still-undetermined explosion last night, the only droids that were still functional were a handful of astromechs, MSE’s, and the last remaining excavator, that had survived the blast only because it was stuck in a wall collapse at the front line trenches. Lon heaved a heavy sigh as he saw that he was to be part of the team to help manually dig the colossal droid from its earthen tomb. He was actually fine with that, having grown up on a farm, he was no stranger to manual labor, and the scent of fresh-turned dirt actually had a calming effect on his nerves. He would have been fine with it if he would have gotten the assignment to do the digging solo, as he was sure the crew they’d pair him with would probably spend the whole time grousing, but he’d see how it went. His orders allowed him enough time to stop for a hot cup of caff and a biscuit before he was expected with his shovel in the front lines. No sign of his drinking buddy this morning, but he was sure Elis was faring much better than he was. He briefly considered the small gesture of trust she had given him when she had unclipped her armor, and realized that it was best to leave any more comments on her injury to himself. Elis was a strong woman, she didn’t want pity, or a protector, she just wanted an occasional ear to bend, and Lon was perfectly fine being that, as long as his hearing held out….

………………………………………………

Carida  
Imperial Academy  
Empire Day

Private Relm B’Tai walked alone through the crowd of rejoicing cadets. The tenth Imperial graduating class were celebrating their final day of training, and the adventures they were soon to embark on. Many of them, mostly the officers from well-to-do families had relatives whom had flown in to witness the proper start of their offspring’s military careers. Relm had no need to search through the swarm for a familiar face, his family was floating through the endless void somewhere above, their bodies jettisoned like trash by the pirate “king” whom had taken their lives. In a way, if Relm tried to look at things in a different light, they were always with him, in his heart and mind, but thoughts like that granted peace, and he wanted no part in that. Hate was at the very core of his soul, he didn’t want to loose that. He needed to use that pain as a weapon he could use against all those whom threatened the security of the only family he truly had, the Empire.

Relm finally made it through the throng, and picked up his pace, there was one person he did want to talk to one last time before he shipped out. He wished he could have had the chance to thank the officer whom had saved him those five years ago, but wherever Lieutenant Piett was, it had to be a sensitive position of importance, since his few attempts at communication were censored by the Imperial Security Bureau. Relm jotted across the commons, past the rows of walkers and tanks that served as sculptures and monuments to imperial might. His destination was the Clone Wars Memorial, as Relm had expected, his target was standing alone before the colossal mosaic. 

The image, when seen from a distance, was much like several of the other monuments to militarism that lined the mile-wide courtyard, but upon closer inspection, it became apparent that the mural was made from thousands of clonetrooper helmets, their varied hues forming a pointillism of war’s human cost. Relm stepped up beside the lone soldier standing before the display, and waited. The man was clad in flat white armor, the orange markings that signified his rank and unit were chipped and worn down, he held his heavily-modified helmet under his left arm, revealing his battle-scarred face and flat-top silver hair. “So,” the man began at last “I take it congratulations are in order, completion of academy training is not an achievement to be taken lightly”

“Thank you sir.” Relm replied, turning his gaze toward the edifice, “ I just wanted to let you know before I shipped out.” The young soldier glanced up at his now-former teacher, momentarily trying to discern the older man's demeanor, as the congratulatory statement he had made seemed more mournful than celebratory. Returning his gaze to the memorial, he continued, “ I got my orders, I’ll be leaving for Mimban in the morning.”

“Joining the mud-jumpers eh?” Cody replied, his tone becoming far less melancholy “ I knew quite a few of my brothers who served there. If you were hoping for a challenging assignment I think you’ve found it.” By “challenging”, Relm knew his instructor was comically downplaying the severity of the assignment, and chose to respond with a barely audible chuckle. “Looking for some parting words of advice son?” Cody continued as he turned to face the junior soldier ‘I’ve only got one thing to add. Do you know why the Clone Wars are referred to as the wars with no generals?” 

“Because the Jedi were the Generals for the Republic,” Relm replied, his voice dripping with a hint of malice and indignation “ and every one of them were traitors to the Republic. In a way, your war was a true soldier’s war. You faced an opponent that struck from within, and yet you prevailed.”

“Remember” Cody answered, placing his hand on the boy’s shoulder, “when it all comes down to it, the only people you can trust are your brothers on the front lines. Combat creates a bond stronger, more powerful than blood, more than genetics. That is all. Hold the line, stay strong….”

………………………………………………………..

Mimban:  
One week later:

Lon Weskin paused for a moment and wiped the sweat from his brow. For a brief instant, as he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, he found himself back home, on the farm that had been his family's legacy for ten generations. He never thought he’d miss that place, he didn’t really long for it even now, but there was something wistful about home, and he wondered if his eyes would ever look upon those fields again. The sound of machinery powering up roused Lon from his daydream, as the trenching droid finally began to pull itself from its earthen tomb. The small cadre of troopers who'd been slaving away digging the colossal droid out let forth a chorus of cheers and shouts as the droid floated on its repulsorlifts and began its trek to the charging station back at command. 

An imperial gunship floated up from the mists behind them as the men gathered their tools and gear to make their way back to base. Lon scooped up his spade and rock pulverizer, as his mind drifted to thoughts of Elis. He hadn’t seen her once in the last week, and he was almost to the point of worry. Lon was positive he hadn’t done anything to offend, or threaten her, and he’d been scanning the casualty reports, but their paths just weren’t crossing anymore. Funny, how many months he’d spent trying to avoid her, now he just wanted a chance for a little conversation. The gunship overhead performed a graceful loop around their position, and then began a slow decent. It was apparent that the pilot was going to give the weary troopers a lift back to base, and the bakers dozen soldiers gave a couple shouts of joy and relief for the chance to get a ride. Lon clambered up the slick clay wall of the trench along with the rest of the crew as the open-air repulsorlift vehicle came in for a landing a few meters away. As the craft settled to the ground Lon decided to check if any of his squadmates had seen the corporal. Even though he was fairly confident none of them liked, or even talked to her, Elis had a distinct enough presence that no one could honestly say they didn’t notice her when she was around. 

“Hey Ches!” Lon called to Private Ches Bolan as he jotted up next to the burly soldier “You happen to see Corporal Rangley lately? I haven’t noticed her around camp in the last few days.”

Ches’ expression was a mixture of surprise and confusion as he replied “The psycho cyclops? Why the hell you want to know about her? The less we see of that crazy nek the better!” Ches had made his reply loud and dramatic enough that it had garnered the attention of the rest of the troopers as they made their way into the repulsorcraft’s open troop transport bay.

“Cut it with the names,” Lon replied, making his feelings of aggravation show clearly in his voice, “she doesn’t deserve that, she’s a good…”

“I’ll tell you what she deserves!” Ches interrupted, to a chorus of bawdy laughter from the rest of their compatriots. It was clear that any hope of a decent conversation was completely dashed, as Lon stopped walking towards the gunship, turned around, and began walking back towards the trenches. “Hey,” Ches called out still chuckling over his insults, “Ain’t you coming? It’s a long walk back from here.”

“No,” Lon replied, turning back towards Ches to glare at him “I don’t like the company, and as for you, you can go to hell for all I care.” The assembled mudtroopers burst out in mocking laughter as the gunship powered up and began its assent, leaving Lon alone on the field below. He didn’t watch the ship leave, in fact Lon was barely conscious of the engine’s whine over the incessant ringing in his ears as it looped around to return to base. It took him longer than most would have taken to notice another sound, that of a rapidly increasing shriek from across the no-man’s-land, until the sound terminated as an armor-piercing shell slammed its way through the pilot’s compartment of the imperial craft overhead. The shockwave nearly knocked Lon off his feet as the forward third of the ship exploded in gouts of flame. The starboard solar panel stabilizer fin cracked off as the ship began to cartwheel is way down to the ground. Lon watched in horror as a pair of troopers were flung from the central compartment, slamming into the rocky ground with a sickening thud-crunch. Completely out of control, the crippled gunship’s engines continued to propel it further out into the buffer zone between the Imperial and Mimban forces, until the arc of its decent finally terminated as it grounded itself nearly a kilometer away. 

Swearing all the way, Lon ran back to the trenches, sliding back down the slippery wall, and hurriedly made his way to the nearest ordinance locker. Fumbling with the access code, and cursing the remarkably uncooperative lock, Lon eventually smashed the panel in with his trenching shovel. The door swung open revealing a thankfully fully-stocked weapons closet and a hard-line communications terminal. “Command! Command!” Lon called into the receptor port as he helped himself to an E-10, triage kit, and a set of macrobinoculars “ Gunship down! I repeat, Gunship down! Multiple fatalities, unknown casualties, requesting immediate reinforcements and a full medical evac team!”

“What’s your operator number?” The command coordinator replied in an aggravatingly calm voice, continuing “we can not dispatch any forces until we have a full conformation of your identity”

Lon incredulously rattled off his twelve-digit ID number and heaved a minor sigh of relief once he received the affirmative response. There was no point to waiting, so he scrabbled his way back out of the trench and ran to the nearest of the fallen soldiers. Lon was thankful for the encroaching fog that was beginning to settle over the mud flats, as cover was nonexistent and he had no idea if enemy troops were on the move or not. It was painfully obvious the moment he reached the first body that there was nothing Lon could do beyond saying a prayer for the young man on the dirt before him. The impact with the ground had snapped the trooper’s neck, leaving his head on a gruesome angle to his torso. Lon muttered a few words of peace as he briefly paused to close the trooper’s eyes and jotted towards the second ejected mudtrooper. This time, as he drew close he cold clearly see movement, but it was terribly clear that this man was not in much better shape than his expired comrade. 

“Hel…he…help….” The gravely injured soldier gasped, frothing blood pouring from the corners of his mouth. “p…please….”he gasped, thrashing his shattered limbs like some form of aquatic invertebrate. 

Lon had no clue what to do in this situation, but cracking the medical case open he found an analgesic hypospray and a pair of respiratory assistant units. The rest of the case was a hodgepodge of devices and bottles that Lon had absolutely no idea what they were used for. It was incredibly obvious that the man was in agony, so Lon decided that the spray was his first course of action. He pulled the injector from its padded housing and pressed the device to the fallen man's neck. No sooner did he press the dispensing trigger, than a random salvo of blaster fire began peppering the ground around him. Lon only took enough time to glance at where the fire was originating from, but when he turned his eyes back to his patient, he found the trooper had acquired a fresh blast-mark through the top of his helmet. Lon’s shoulders slumped as he realized the futility of his efforts, but the increasing reports of blaster fire quickly pushed any thoughts of self-pity aside. He scooped up the med-case and his rifle, taking inventory of his surroundings in a desperate search for cover. Through the mists, he could make out the shape of the twisted solar panel stabilizer fin jutting out of the otherwise smooth landscape. 

“Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!” Lon chided himself as he made a break for the armored plate. He sprinted at full speed, praying to not attract the attention of the enemy, as it became more obvious that a tremendous firefight was taking place at the site of the crashed imperial craft. “How long does it take to scramble some air support?” Lon vented aloud as he tried to judge the feasibility of being able to cover the distance to the downed ship without being cut down himself. The temptation to open fire from his current position was quickly brushed aside, as he realized his rifle lacked the optic targeting package to successfully identify, let alone hit, the enemy. He took a moment, re-checked the power cells, took a deep breath and made his break for the ship.

Lon scurried as fast as his legs would propel him, trying to hunch down as he ran to provide as small a target as possible. It seemed as if the distance was endless, random blaster fire whizzed past him as he continued to sprint across the damp grey terrain. Mercifully, about a hundred meters from the crash site, the ship’s rear directional vanes had fallen off, and at last Lon found himself in range and with concealment. He braced his E-10 on the top edge of the wreckage to compensate for his shaking hands and thundering heart beat, took aim at the nearest Mimban warrior, and opened fire. He managed to hit two targets before his muzzle flashes gave his position away, and he was forced to hunker down behind the chunk of wreckage as a salvo of enemy fire began chewing their way into his shelter. Lon waited for a break in the barrage to take his next shot, feeling he had an opening, he glanced over the top of the panel, only to feel a searing pain rip through his left shoulder.

The shock of the blasterbolt knocked Lon clean off his feet, sending him sprawling onto the dirt. The smell of his burning flesh combined with the pain of the wound almost made him nauseous, but he gathered his senses and dragged himself back to his cover. It was only then he realized his rifle had been thrown clear from his hiding place. Lon took quick inventory of his surroundings, desperately searching for something in arm’s reach he could use to defend himself, to no avail. The blaster fire was picking up in intensity, and Lon was beginning to resign himself to his fate. 

It all seemed so pointless. In the months since his arrival here, there was so little to show for the suffering he had endured. Even with this, what he was sure was his final mission, nothing of value would be gained. The crew of the gunship would most definitely all be killed, their bodies would probably never be recovered, command had undoubtedly decided that a handful of ground troops weren’t worth the effort to rescue. What Lon was struggling with most was that no one had ordered, not even asked him to take on this mission, and now he was going to pay the ultimate price for his foolhardiness. 

The sound of rapidly approaching footfalls signaled the fact that the enemy were on their way to finish Lon off. He squeezed himself up against the solar panel, hoping to buy himself a second to surprise his attacker by lunging from the shadow it afforded him. A moment later, a crimson-skinned warrior rounded the wreckage, a wicked-looking battle axe raised above its head. Lon tensed his muscles, preparing to attempt to roll away from the incoming strike, when suddenly the axe, along with he creature’s hands flew away as a sniper bolt severed them at the wrists. The Mimbanese turned its head toward the direction of the blast as it howled in agony, a cry that was cut short as a second bolt drilled through his skull, and the warrior slumped to the ground. Lon turned his eyes skyward straining to see his savior when the incredibly welcome sight of an AT-hauler dropped through the low-hanging cloud cover. As the cargo carrier swooped in, Lon could make out the silhouettes of a pair of soldiers with long guns on the catwalk that hung beneath the craft, and a heartbeat later those guns resumed sniping the enemy forces. The hauler moved into position directly over the downed gunship and dropped its lift cables as a pair of TIE fighters screamed past, raking the ground with strafing blasts. 

The effects of adrenaline were finally starting to wear off and Lon could feel his body giving way to the pain of his injury. It was startling how cold he felt as he took a moment to inspect the hole in his shoulder. It was obvious that something critical had been severed as rivulets of deep crimson flowed from the burn mark. A new set of approaching footfalls forced his attention away from the pain. His dimming vision afforded him a glimpse of one of his saviors, her sniper rifle slung across her back, her distinctive hairstyle sweeping down from the brow of her helmet. “Get a stretcher over here,” Elis called back to her teammates as the TIEs continues their merciless pummeling of the surrounding battlefield, “we got another one here!”. Confident the medic had heard her, Elis afforded Lon a withering glare, then turned and jotted off….. 

………………………………………………………….

Dr. Milburn ess had his hands, and his bacta tanks full. The last thing he needed, on top of the dozens of casualties from the generator explosion, was another mass-injury incident like a gunship full of troopers going down. Eight had survived the crash, plus the one who had attempted to help on the ground, and it was that one who he had turned his attention now. Milburn gave his 2-1B surgical assistant droid permission to decant the recovering soldier and took a quick perusal of the vital signs on the diagnostic screen. In an effort to conserve resources, the viscous clear healing liquid flushed from the coffin-sized tank was re-collected to be sanitized and reused. Once the top hatch opened, the medical droid administered Lon a stimulant injection, rousing him from his medically-induced slumber. Milburn watched the screens intently as the young soldier pulled himself up to a seated position and removed the breathing mask that covered his mouth and nostrils. Satisfied with what he was seeing on the diagnostic, Dr. Jess set the screen down and addressed the private “ Welcome back to the world of the living,” He paused to take a sip from his cup of caff, “such as it is… How do you feel?” 

“Like a turbo-tank rolled over me a couple times. How long was I out Doc?” Lon took a moment to inspect the grafted-over spot where his wound had been, rotating his left arm in large circles to test its flexibility.

“About two days,” Milburn replied as he walked over to roughly massage Lon’s repaired clavicle “yeah, seems like all’s in order here. Any discomfort?”

Lon toyed with the idea of telling Doc that he had been feeling better until that bit of man-handling, but he decided against it. In stead, he decided to query about his hearing issues. Lon had hoped that the dunk in the bacta tank would have had a carry-over benefit for his ears, but if anything, they seemed to be worse now. “So, Doc, anything I can do about this buzzing in my head? I’ve been wearing my gear, but it seems to be getting louder all the time.”

Milburn took a long sip from his mug, set it down, then took a seat on a stool opposite Lon. “It’s not going to get better son,” his tone was uncharacteristically soft compares to his usual demeanor, he paused long enough for the words to settle in before continuing “I had hoped that what you had was auditory trauma, but there’s more to it. You have a genetic condition that has only been exacerbated by this place. Your hearing is going to get worse, and unfortunately there’s nothing I can do for you here.”

The shock of the doctor’s words hit Lon harder than the blasterbolt that had ripped through his shoulder. "H-how long do I have?” he asked quietly “Is there nothing I can do?”

“A few months before the ringing will drown out just about anything intelligible,” Milburn replied, rubbing his jaw in a mannerism that conveyed his pondering of the situation “ the only viable solution is cybernetics, but I’ll be honest with you. You’re a low-ranking infantryman son, the Empire isn’t going to provide for a cosmetically appealing appliance, and if they decide to crack your skull open to repair the damage, they’re going to go for the full head-wrap. Its not a life to look forward to. My advice is to hold out as long as you can, get as many points as you can rack up, and when it gets too bad, I’ll sign your discharge orders. I know its not the answer you want, but it’s the best I can offer you.”

………………………………………………………

Despite having spent the last two days unconscious, after the news he had received, all Lon wanted to do was go to bed. He had stopped at the quartermaster’s office and received his fresh uniform and armor, and had received the assignment of a brand-new flimsiplast shelter in the tent city that had sprung up around the base of the reconstructed power generator. The new shelters were all two-occupant units, and the corporal at the requisition station had informed him that his bunk-mate would be assigned from the reinforcements that were arriving tomorrow. The bustle of technicians, soldiers, and droids swarmed about him, but Lon paid them little notice. His world was small already, but it seemed that it was destined to get even smaller. So much for an illustrious military career, as much as he hated the idea of dropping out, the old doctor was right, he’d never allow himself to be turned into one of those drones who manned the flight control tower. That was no life, he’d almost prefer death to that. After wandering aimlessly for a few hours, with only his ever-darkening thoughts to keep him company, Lon made his way to his new residence. 

He paused as he always did, packed his armor in the sanitizing locker outside the doorway, sprayed himself down, and stepped inside. The double-wide shelter still smelled of the manufacturing process that had fabricated it, but the spartan décor was the same as the last tent he had called home. Lon sighed as he sat on the edge of the one opened cot, and he pondered for a moment what these next few months would hold in store for him. Deciding that there really was no point to mulling things over anymore, he flopped down, only to almost immediately wish he hadn’t, as his head made contact with something hard inside the pillowcase. Confused, Lon sat back up, grabbed the pillow, and rummaged inside the cover to find something cool and metallic inside. Cautiously, he pulled the object from its concealment, to discover the object was a flask. Uncapping the top, an aroma not unlike that of industrial-strength paint solvent wafted from the container. In that moment, all of the mental turmoil he had been wrestling with faded away, and the faintest of smiles crossed his lips. Lon took a small sip of the contents, let it linger before allowing the molten lava drain down his throat. Taking a moment to let the burning sensation dissipate, he lifted the small bottle and offered a toast to the silent room…. 

…………………………………………………………………………………………………….

The senator sat cross-legged on a handwoven mat on the floor of the tribal elder’s hut. Despite his wife’s objections for fear of his safety, and his ever-more assertive daughter’s eagerness to accompany him, Bail had followed his host’s request to travel to Mimban alone, save for his interpreter droid. The village was nestled deep in the mist-shrouded rainforests that lay safely outside the range of the mudflats that served as the perpetual bloodletting fields in the indigenous people’s struggle against the Empire. 

His host offered a cup of herbal tea as he continued his plea for assistance, the golden protocol droid between the two leaders translating as he spoke. “….our people are on the verge of extinction. We must gain some form of military intervention, humanitarian aide is simply not enough to save us.” 

Bail Organa took a moment to consider his reply, as he knew the answer he had to offer was the opposite of what the Mimban chieftain was hoping to hear. “My friend, your people’s cry for help has not gone unnoticed, but a full scale military intervention is impossible at this time.” He could see in the eyes of his host a certain amount of distrust in his words, so, against his better judgement, he made an offer he almost instantly regretted. “There are others, people whose connection to the underworld could provide the types of resources you need. I could contact them to help arm your people, but there is always a hidden cost when dealing with such organizations.” Bail waited for the droid to finish his translation before he spoke again “I know your people are a proud and noble one, but in this case, continuing to openly resist the Empire can only serve against you. Your actions, especially the use of chemical and biological agents have only served to galvanize the public opinion against you.” Bail paused , this time he leaned in closer and reached out to take the elder leader’s hand in a gesture of sincerity “At this juncture, the survival of your people needs to be paramount. The time is coming when open rebellion will be at hand, but that time is not now. Do not give the Empire cause to escalate this conflict any further, their resources are vast and their cruelty knows no limits…..”


End file.
